The Voyage Home
by WriteToLive
Summary: Follow-up to Undiscovered Country. It might stand on its own for the most part, but will probably make more sense if you read that one first. Sam betrayed Gene to save him. Now they have to deal with that.
1. Chapter 1

Gene dropped a few notes on the counter, and glanced to the left when the shop bell rang. A woman was struggling to get the door open; her kid's pushchair caught by its wheel. 'Forty Marlboro, Stan. And a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.'

'Aye.' Stan turned to get the fags and whiskey from behind him. 'Still on holiday, Gene? Not like you.'

'Yeah, well.'

'Not bad weather for it. You'll be able to get out in the garden a bit. You off to Blackpool? Or was it Lytham you an' Barb go to?'

Gene idly counted the change in his hand, flicking coins over one by one with his thumbnail. 'Yeah. Lytham. You know she – oh bloody hell, hang on…' He strode over to the door, and held it wide for the woman. Her child had started to cry. 'Come on, luv.'

'Oh, ta.' She dislodged the pram, and gave him a grateful smile. He nodded at her, and waited for her to manoeuver herself inside before going back for his stuff. Stan was looking to the next customer, so he didn't bother explaining that it's been eighteen months since Barbara left. She used to shop here, but there was a row about the state of the bread, or something. If Stan thought it was weird that Gene did the shopping now, he never mentioned it.

'Take care now, Gene.'

'You an' all, mate.'

He lit a fag as soon as he hit the pavement, and looked right and left before moving on. There wasn't many people around, and the few he saw were those he recognised on sight. He should be able to get home without having to talk to anyone. He flipped the collar of his coat up against the chilly March breeze, and walked, head down, hands in his pockets with his carrier bag banging against his leg. It was ten in the morning, and he'd already accomplished everything he had to do today.

He reached the top of the road, turned left, walked the house-length to the top of his own street, turned left again. Only fifty yards to his own front door, and a glance up confirmed no people around. His shoulders relaxed, and he raised his head. The sun was out, for all the good it did against the cold in the air, but it was better than rain. Maybe he would get out in the garden later. The grass would be knee-height soon, if he didn't do something about it.

'Who's that?'

He hadn't seen the open door, and his stomach twisted. Then relaxed. 'It's Gene, Mrs Braithwaite. You all right, sweet'eart?

Mrs Braithwaite was nearly ninety, and almost completely blind. She was in the doorway of her house, leaning on a walking stick, wrapped in layers of cardigans and an old pinny. Her hair was white and curled around her wrinkled face, brushed to tidy perfection. He recalled her daughter came to see to her in the mornings and at night, otherwise she'd never manage in the house on her own. 'Oh, hello Gene. Not at work today?'

'No, not today, luv.'

'I've been waitin' for someone to come by. You couldn't drop in later could you, duck? I've a tap drippin' in the kitchen, and it's driving me mad. Deirdre said she'd ask Martin, but he's workin' away until the weekend.'

The son-in-law. He tried to remember what Barb used to say about him. A sullen piece of work, apparently. Lorry driver. 'Yeah, no problem. I'll have to fetch me tools out the garage. Might take a bit to find them. After lunch all right?'

'You're a love. I'll get the biscuits out for you.'

He smiled a bit, even though she couldn't see. 'That'd be nice. Mind how you go, now. You alright getting back inside?'

She went 'pfft' at him, and tapped her stick on the ground. 'Reckon I can manage that, my lad. Just knock an' come in later, though. Save me gettin' out of me chair.'

'Will do. See you later.'

He walked on a few steps, then watched her safely inside. It was stupid, really, he told himself. To get nervous about a simple walk to the shop in the morning. Two weeks of driving into town for fags and a paper before he told himself to stop being a girl, and show his face. Two more weeks of hanging around here, and only the odd strange look to deal with. It wasn't so bad.

He turned, and headed for his own door. At least he had something useful to do today, now. And the sun was shining, and there'll be whiskey later. There's a pie for lunch, and he might phone his bookie this afternoon. It wasn't so bad.

He opened his gate, and stopped short. The faint tendrils of optimism withered to nothing. His shoulders dropped, in resignation this time. He'd only been gone half an hour. It was long enough. Because someone had painted on his door, bright red letters that screamed to the world.

_QUEER._

###

He left the door wide open, so the word wouldn't be so visible. It hadn't fully dried; thick, glutinous oil paint that wouldn't wipe away without leaving stains forever. He'd have to scrape it clean, and repaint. He stood and looked at it, still holding his bag. It had run a bit, turning it into the blood-drip font of old horror films. _Here be monsters._

The phone rang next to him. He picked it up without moving. 'Yeah?'

There was a pause. 'Guv? Phyllis.'

His head snapped up. For a long few moments, not a single word appeared in his head. There was only the sick nerves, present all morning, rising to block his throat.

'…Gene?'

'Yeah. Hello.'

She hesitated again, so it wasn't just him this was awful for. 'Uh…it's just, we had a phone call. One of your neighbours said-' Gene leaned forward until his forehead rested on the door, and closed his eyes, '-there was someone…vandalising, your house.'

'Painting on the door, you mean.'

'…yeah.'

Oh, _God_.

'Do you want us to send someone?'

He snorted, too high, a sound of surprise and _are you joking?_ 'You know the answer to that, or you wouldn't have rung first.'

'Well, I just thought – y'know.'

'Yeah. I know.' He sighed, and straightened up. 'It's fine.'

She was quiet again, and he almost hung up. But then; 'it's not fine, Guv.'

'Well, it's something I'll have to get used to, by the look of it.'

'They'll get bored eventually.'

'Lucky me.'

His tone seemed to pull her out of her sympathetic platitudes – hardly her strong suit at any time, but he appreciated the effort – and she turned brisk once more. 'All right. Well. I'll tell uniform it's nothing.'

'Yeah. Ta, Phyllis.'

He didn't put the phone down. Neither did she. There was a question burning his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. Instead, he said, 'everything all right there?'

'Same as ever.' Her tone did not convince. He could imagine that it was tidier, at the very least. And she still didn't end the conversation.

'Well – all right. Thanks for ringing.'

'Guv-'

He waited, but it seemed like she didn't know what to say. Or whether she was allowed to say what she wanted to, though that rarely stopped her in the past. He waited, both willing her to speak, and dreading what she might come out with.

'Should I tell him?'

He bit his lower lip, and shook his head. 'No.'

'He should know what he-'

'-if he doesn't by now, telling him this won't help.' He had to get off the line. This wasn't what he wanted to hear. 'I have to go. Ta, Phyllis.'

He put the receiver down, and took a deep breath. Just get rid of it, and it'd be finished with. As he was searching out some cloths and an old tin of gloss from the shed, it occurred to him that she might not have phoned just to spare him embarrassment. It might well have been that the lads objected to coming. It's not as though the police took harassment of queers seriously.

##

People walked by while he was scraping the word (_queer, queer, queer_) off the door. One or two were people he knew. He didn't look at anyone. Alfie Barnett, a bloke he'd played darts against dozens of times, stopped in his peripheral vision. Gene didn't look around, and could _feel_ the man reading what was still printed into the paintwork. He walked on without saying hello. Gene tightened his mouth into a line, and kept going. It took two hours to clear it and get the first new coat drying. He drank whiskey with his lunch.

##

He rapped hard on Mrs Braithwaite's door, and opened it. 'You here, Mrs B?'

'No, I'm dancin' the Can-Can at the Moulin Rouge. Come on in, Gene. Daft sod.'

'Oi. I'm doing you a favour here.' He smiled, slow and lopsided, and rounded the corner into the front room. Mrs Braithwaite was bundled up in front of a smoking fire, blanket over her knees. 'Blimey. You need your chimney swept.'

'Deirdre said she'd get Martin on it. Did you find your tools all right?'

'Yeah, all sorted. Just take a jiffy.'

'Stick the kettle on while you're there, luv. Biscuits an' sugar are on the side.'

'You're a star.'

He wandered on through to a kitchen that was identical to his own, only pristine, where his was a tip. He turned the water off at the mains while the kettle boiled, and took her a cup through. She looked like she might be dozing, but she still said, as he set it down, 'you been in the pub?'

'…yeah.'

'Well, mind how you go with your spanner, then.'

She reminded him of his mother. He patted her arm, and left her to it. The room swam a bit as he spooned sugar into his cup, but he thought he hadn't drunk that much. He might have spilled few drops on his shirt, which is why it smelled strong. Maybe.

His right hand still wasn't fixed from the damage he'd done the night Gary-John Lancett died. The cuts were healed, but the knuckle he broke still ached, and was double its normal size. He had trouble closing his fist properly, and two of his fingers couldn't straighten all the way. The scar would disappear almost completely, in time. The doctor hadn't understood why he'd laughed when he was told that.

He looked at it as he twisted the spanner, and felt the vague, pinching pain up his nerves, all the way to the elbow. It didn't stop him working, so long as he concentrated on clenching it hard. He'd even got the all-clear for _real_ work, for all the use that'd do. The thought, as always, gave him a sinking sensation right down the middle, and he stopped to take a swig from his hip flask. There was no point thinking about it, but he couldn't stop. It was what he woke up with, and what he passed out to at night. That, and…the other thing.

'You all right in there, Gene?'

'Yes, luv. Nearly done.'

He put his hip flask away, and pulled the main part of the tap out to get the broken washer off the bottom. It was held in by a small screw, so he grasped it in his right hand, and set to it with his left. It was awkward, he was drunk, but he got it undone eventually. The washer looked like it'd been there since the turn of the century, and was embedded into the bottom groove of the metal. He sighed, and started to dig it out.

The whiskey probably helped, in the end. When the screwdriver slipped off the ancient rubber, and jammed into the soft flesh at the join of his thumb, he barely felt it. There was a sensation of impact, and then a muted flare of pain where the corner of the flat head ripped his skin apart. He saw the pitted brown and silver tip swivel, pull the wound open and push inside; his mouth opened in surprise but no sound came out. He just dropped the whole thing, tool and tap, and watched blood dribble down his wrist.

'What was that? You're not breakin' my sink, are you, Gene?'

'No, it's fine. Just me screwdriver.'

The washer lay in the stainless steel basin, curled in on itself, rigid with age and damage. He dropped his hand to his side, picked up his stuff, and wondered, really, whether any of this was worth it.

##

At night, he sat in his armchair and drank. When the pain throbbed too much, he swallowed another mouthful, and then looked at the hole he'd made. It had taken a while for the bleeding to stop, because the cut was wide, and deep. It needed stitches. He put the fingers and thumb of his other hand either side of the wound, and squeezed. The clot was too deep to allow it to bleed again, but the pain was awful. He pressed until he felt sick, then let go.

It had been a month. A month of this. He told himself it was just that today was particularly bad; that he was lucky it had taken this long for the public slurs to start. And tomorrow was going to be worse. Tomorrow was enough to make him want to drink to the end of the bottle, break it, and cut himself so badly there'd be no more pain again. Not that he would. He wasn't a coward. But he couldn't deny the idea wasn't as abhorrent as it should be.

The knock on the door came around eleven. He'd almost reached the bottom of the label, so it took a while to get out of his chair. Blood loss probably didn't help, relatively minor as it was. Maybe they'd go away. Maybe it was a continuation of the paint, and he'd open the door to find nothing, or a bag of burning dog shit, or a couple of mates who wanted to give him a kicking.

The knocking came again, louder this time. He stopped, and listened. A shuffling of feet, maybe. A sniff? Gene shook his head blearily, and leant on the wall. Who was he kidding? Hadn't he been expecting this, at some point?

The air was close to freezing at this time of night. It rushed in as he opened the door, wrapped itself around him but couldn't penetrate. Gene crossed his arms to hide his new injury, and let the hardened pulse of fury burn his drunkenness away.

'What do you want?'

Sam had been looking down. He glanced up now; apologetic, defiant, maybe embarrassed. He shifted from foot to foot, and then stuck his hands in his jeans pockets.

'To talk.'

Gene felt moments ticking by. He should do more than glare at the man. He should punch the living crap out of him and leave him bleeding on the ground. Let him freeze out here on his own.

But he didn't. He just stared. And then, eventually, turned his back. But he left the door open.

'Best come in then.'


	2. Chapter II

**II**

Sam put his hands over his ears, tucked his elbows in and his head down, and tried to block out the noise. Impossible, obviously; when the whole of A Division used the office to warm up for the evening's five-a-side against B Division, there was no unhearing it. His eyes scanned the same half-page three times as the noise got louder, but he didn't look up. There was only ten more minutes until end of shift, and while it twisted him up to ignore it, it was probably for the best.

'Hey up, Chris! Get your head on this!' Sam heard Ray's shoe connect with the ball, and gritted his teeth as a loud cheer went up. Chris must have made contact. Then there was a muttered, '…oops, hang on…' and the noise stopped, as abruptly as if someone had thrown a switch. Sam looked up, just in time to see the ball hit the edge of his desk, spin up into the air and then land with a crash as it knocked over his stationary tray, keys, and a cup of half-drunk cold tea. He didn't move as the stuff started to seep into the report he was trying to read. Just watched as it melted into the grain of the cheap paper, and clenched his hand into a fist when the first snigger came.

'Never mind, _boss_.' Ray smirked, and put one large hand on the ball to stop it rolling off the edge. 'Your type like cleaning, don't they?'

More chuckling, and it looked like they were going to start their racket up again. Ray lifted the ball. Sam's hand shot out with no conscious instruction from his brain, and slapped down on Ray's, pressing hard and trapping it there. Ray tried to jerk it back at once, but he held fast. 'Get this thing off my desk,' he said, enunciating clearly, 'and out of this bloody office.'

Ray pulled harder, a hint of worry on his face. Still, he sneered, 'or what?'

'Or you'll be on desk duty for a month. With me.'

Ray's eyes widened. He tried to free his hand again, but Sam grasped his wrist.

'Get off!'

'Oh, don't worry.' Sam stood, and curled his lip into something mean, pushing every other emotion down. He leaned in, just a fraction, and forced himself to look the man in the eye. 'It's not catching.'

Everyone was still. Sam counted to ten before someone coughed, a dry smoker's hack that broke the silence. He released the hand, and gestured towards the door. 'Everyone get out. Good luck with the game.'

They filed out like chastised schoolboys, the murmurs only starting once they reached the corridor. Ray glared as he went – no surprise there. Only Chris lingered.

'Uhh…don't suppose you'd want to…' Sam raised his eyebrows. Chris fidgeted on the spot. '…that is, like, there'll be people watching. Don't think they'd let you play, but-'

Sam couldn't help a smile. Not for the first time this month, he suspected he might actually love Chris. 'Nah, you're all right. But thanks for asking. I appreciate it.' He looked down at the mess on his desk, and put the cup right. He expected to hear the doors swinging, but no. Chris was still there, with a pained look on his face. For one horrifying second, it felt like he was going to say something wildly inappropriate – the thought _not love like _that! flashed across his brain – but then,

'I heard somethin' today, boss.'

Sam snorted, relieved, and crossed his arms. 'I'd be surprised if you didn't.' Though it would have to be pretty bad to stand out from all the other things flying around about him. Apart from all the homophobic slurs, he was the man who destroyed Gene Hunt. But Chris was shaking his head.

'Not about you, boss. Or, I mean – yeah, stuff about you, but that's not what I'm…about the Guv, is what I meant.' His eyes slid sideways as he made his point, because talking about the Guv wasn't allowed. Not in front of Sam, anyway.

'Oh.' Sam looked down again, then immediately pulled his gaze back up. A beat, and then, 'well?'

Chris looked like he wanted the ground to open up. 'Think he's had a bit of bother. Someone phoned in. I heard Phyllis on the blower to him.' He trailed off. Sam just stared at him. 'I mean, I dunno if you'd want to know. Or if you did already, or if…haven't you seen him, then?'

Sam forced himself not to close his eyes, forced his chest not to heave in. He just swallowed quietly, and shook his head. 'No, Chris. I haven't.' Chris looked like he didn't know what to say to that, which was fine, because neither did he. 'What sort of bother, do you know?'

'No. Phyllis didn't send uniform out though, so it couldn't have been-'

He stopped again, possibly realising, as Sam did, that Gene would avoid police contact no matter how bad things were at the moment. Sam chewed the inside of his lip, and let his arms drop just as Ray yelled from the end of the corridor. Chris looked at the door, and Sam nodded at him. 'Go on. See you tomorrow. And…cheers.'

There was a grateful smile, which he returned. Only when he was alone did he sit, and let out the long breath he'd kept trapped inside. It brought no relief. 'A bit of bother' could mean anything, and it wasn't like blokes around here weren't prone to understatement. He's heard multiple stabbings described in more casual terms than _a bit of bother_.

He grabbed for the phone, then hesitated, and hated himself for it. 'For God's sake, Gene,' he muttered, and wished it didn't ache so much. He sat back in his chair, and pulled both hands down his face. It did something for his resolve; he picked up the phone again, and dialled down to the front desk without letting himself think. 'CID. Is Phyllis still there?'

The voice on the other end was male, and cold to the point of hostility. But he was used to that by now. 'No.'

Sam hung up. Sod this. He'd had enough of this place for the day – for a bloody lifetime, actually. He pushed all thoughts of a quick pint away, though the pub would be quiet with the lads at footy, and Nelson was the only person who didn't treat him differently now. He grabbed his jacket instead, and left his desk without cleaning it. There was a quick stop at his locker to pick up his house keys, and a bottle of wine he'd bought that morning. Someone bashed a dent in the door last week, and scratched 'poof' into the metal. It still made him roll his eyes to see it now, but he couldn't be bothered requesting a new one. And there was something calming about how Ray could always be counted on to be predictable. He probably thought that kind of schoolboy maturity was intimidating. Idiot.

###

He ran into Annie on his way out the front door. He stopped, and watched her come up the steps – she didn't notice him, and it was a novelty to see her unguarded. He knew as soon as she looked up, she'd retreat behind the mask of polite concern that seemed to be her default setting around him, now. She looked tired, he thought. Not in her face, maybe, but in the set of her shoulders as she came up the stairs, like an invisible hand was pressing down from above. Something clenched in his chest, because he used to be able to help when she looked like that. Now, he wasn't sure he wasn't the cause. Her jaded body language, Ray's increased belligerence, Chris's nerves. Part of him thought he shouldn't be responsible, because they were adults, and didn't need their hands held. But maybe they did. Maybe they needed Gene.

She saw him when she reached the top of the steps, and faltered. He smiled like he didn't notice, and she did too. Still, there was hesitation before she came over.

'You off home?' She glanced at the bottle in his hand, and he just shrugged a shoulder.

'Are you all right? You look knackered.'

She pulled that face that always made him feel a bit stupid. Her dry smile, and a hint of a laugh, which managed to convey _no, I'm not_ while still being sarcastic about his comment. 'I've just spent three hours with Laura Lancett. What do you think?'

OK, it was a stupid question. 'How is she?'

'Panicked. Struggling. Still in pain. How's she supposed to be, Sam?'

'Sorry. Yeah.' He sighed, and looked her in the eye. 'She does know she won't have to come to court, doesn't she? You have made it clear that Ricky's confessed, and-'

'Sam, for God's sake! I don't need you to tell me how to do my job.'

He pulled back in surprise. Annie looked away at once, biting her lip. He floundered for a moment, because he knew things had been weird, but that was the first time she'd openly snapped at him. '…sorry. I didn't mean to imply you couldn't-'

'No, I'm sorry, Sam. Sir. You've every right to make sure I've informed-'

'Stop that. Annie-' he put a hand on her arm, but his heart sank when she allowed it for only a second. '-what's wrong? I know none of this has been easy, but…'

He trailed off, aware of how weak it sounded. _None of this has been easy, but we'll be all right. We'll pick up. Just forget about what happened, and what I did, and we can all be a team again_. And now Annie stared at him, her direct look that said everything about just how useless platitudes were. 'But, what?'

'I don't know.'

She shook her head, not releasing him. 'Stop trying to pretend everything's all right. It's like you think that…I don't even know what you think. That Ricky confessed, so he'll go to prison, and that's the case closed? It's like you don't even know-' She broke off, and looked at the police station instead. He wanted her to go on, though it never stopped hurting to see her angry at him.

'What don't I know?'

She shook her head again, and he noticed that her face was tense but her eyes never stopped moving. Like if she stopped searching for something to land on, she might break down. 'Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm just knackered. Laura's not holding it together, and her boys are running riot. I was only supposed to be there ten minutes. And tomorrow's-' Her shoulders went down a bit more. Sam nodded slowly.

'It's been a shit day. And tomorrow will be worse.' He could hardly bear the thought of it, no matter how many times he told himself it was just a meeting or two, and at least there would be some resolution to things. 'But you know, you don't have to see him. If it'll-'

For a second, he thought she was going to slap him. Her hand actually twitched, and if it looked like she might cry a few moments ago, now she looked like she could explode with fury. 'I _want_ to see him! We all bloody do! It's only _you_ that's making this impossible, Sam.'

He couldn't make his mouth move. But, eventually; 'What do you mean?'

'Oh, for God's _sake!_' She turned on her heel, and marched away. Her shoulders weren't down any more; she moved like a general about to lead an army into battle. He could only stare after her.

'Annie! I don't understand!'

She didn't look back. He watched until the doors of the station swung shut, then looked at the bottle again. 'Shit.'

He just wanted to go and drink it all. And maybe another one after it. Maybe if he drank enough, tomorrow would never come. It would be easier than finding a roof to jump off, but if he was honest, that didn't sound like such a bad option either.

###

Gene's house had always been weird for him. It wasn't that it was the place the man had shared with his wife for twenty years, though that was a concern at first. It was that it was so essentially Gene, and yet so wrong for him it was almost incongruous. But it was of this world, and Gene himself never seemed to question it. It was mid-terrace, middle-class, almost the same as every other in the street. The kitchen had been new in the Sixties, the décor had a lot of brown, and cream, with a few splashes of orange that Gene hadn't been able to persuade Barbara away from. It was so _normal_, and the man himself both fitted it, and didn't. He tried to explain his unease once, and had been met with honest confusion, and a comment of, 'where am I supposed to live, then?' He hadn't been able to answer. If this was 2006, he'd imagine Gene moving out of the marital suburban new-build, and into a bachelor apartment in the city. One of those executive places that cost a fair bit, with a plasma screen TV that had the full Sky Sports package, and pictures of flash cars on the walls. Male, and messy, and empty.

But here – the living room furniture was chintzy. There were flowers on the spare room curtains. The kitchen lino was cracked, and the cups were mostly a shitty green colour. It never occurred to Gene to change them, or redecorate. He lived in a house decorated by a woman, and while he would fit fine if he were still married, if they'd ever had kids – now it just seemed wrong. Maybe that was why they'd spent most of their nights together at Sam's place, even when he'd still lived in that terrible first flat. It had only taken two nights of vigorous sex to finally break the bed. He'd moved somewhere new soon after.

Sam had drunk the wine, and another bottle. All he could focus on was that Gene's front door was a different colour. Maybe the man was using his time off to do some DIY. He was quite handy around the house when he got off his arse - he'd mentioned something about doing well in woodwork in school, when he was a kid. And on another, happier, occasion, when the pillow talk turned to nostalgia, he'd talked about the Saturday job helping out in his mate's dad's garage. It explained the love of cars, and the hours he'd spend under the bonnet on Sunday afternoons if work and weather allowed. Sam rested his head back against his seat, and pushed the memories away. Thinking of those weekends never brought anything but pain, sharper than the permanent ache he carried around with him. Not as much pain as thinking about that day in Lost and Found, though. He'd lost count of the amount of times he asked himself if he'd done the right thing. The answer was always the same. Yes. If he hadn't, Gene might be dead by now. He'd certainly be suffering. And Sam couldn't bear the thought of it. Couldn't then, can't now. So, yes. He did the right thing.

He rested his forehead on the car window, and watched. There was no sign of movement inside. The front room curtains were closed. His eyes tracked a few people going past under the orange glow of streetlights – most just walked along, minding their own business. But he did notice two men of about his own age; one eyed the house as they approached, then nudged his mate. Something was said, and they both laughed. Sam closed his eyes until they were gone.

He'd tried to come before tonight. He wasn't supposed to, officially. Not with the investigation going on. But Gene would never have told, and no one else would know. He couldn't lie to himself and say it was that stopping him. He should move on now, because in less than twenty four hours', there wouldn't be any legal restriction on him being here. He could wait another day – no, scratch that. He _should_ wait another day. But he could imagine Gene pacing around in there. There was what Chris told him. There was Annie being angry at him, and the way he didn't understand why. It wasn't true to say he could wait any longer. It wasn't honest to say the two bottles of didn't give him the guts he needed.

The paint on the door was still wet. He shuffled his feet, sniffed cold air that made his nose tickle. When a door opened inside and spilled light into the hall, he looked down. 'Nerves' wasn't accurate. Downright terror was more like it.

'What do you want?'

He glanced up. His stomach lurched. Gene looked awful, and perfect. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, and tried for simple. 'To talk.'

Gene looked like he might hit him. He wouldn't blame him, as long as they could talk after. But he didn't swing. He just glared, and it might have been a month since Sam saw those eyes calculating, assessing, flicking over him while he thought, but the familiarity still caused the ache in his chest to push forward, as though reaching to be seen.

Gene turned his back. Sam tightened his lips, steeled himself to get thrown out. But the door was still open.

'Best come in, then.'


End file.
